Ending Soon: Baby Shoes, Never Worn, bargain!

by Nicola Belte

Won: T-Shirt, Used but in Great Condition! Cute, Cartoon

More crap. It has a yellow cartoon duck in the middle of it; it’s about three sizes too big, and it makes her look flat-chested and about ten years old. But I don’t say anything. “It’s fun, cool, quirky, like me,” she says, “and I wouldn’t mind being a duck” She makes a beak from her lips, and giggles. “I think you’re a cat, or a fox, or a wolf. You’d eat me up. But I’d let you. Which would you be, if you had to choose?”

“I’m late” I say.

She’s still wearing it later. She puts down her laptop and unzips my fly, sitting astride me and kissing my neck like she always does. Soon we’re fucking on the sofa, and all I can see is her shoulder in the way of the television and the bill of that duck bouncing up and down.

Won: Moustache Necklace, Brand New in Box, Kitsch, Unique

She’s walks into the bathroom with a black, plastic curly moustache on a chain balanced above her upper lip. She’s scrunching up her face to keep it in place, and I can see the fine lines all around her puffy eyes. She’s been up all night, again. Crying. Buying junk. “You like?” she asks, in a stupid accent, and pretends to twiddle the ends of it. She puts her hand between my legs, “maybe you like boys, maybe you like to be dominated, oui?” she says, fluttering her lashes and grinding up against me.

“I’ll see you later,” I say, kissing her on the forehead.

She keeps it on when everything else if off. She ties me to the headboard with the belt from her dressing gown, and starts scratching at my stomach and asking me if I like it, again and again. She tries dirty talking, hunched over me, flicking her greasy hair about, and I notice that her necklace is turning her skin green.

Won: Novelty Slippers, Monster, Claw, Unwanted Gift, Small

We sit down together at the table, for the first time in months, and she keeps running her new yeti slippers up and down my leg; cracking up into her uneaten pasta because it’s so fucking hilarious. She stomp-stomp-stomps to the fridge and back, skinny legs sliding across the cheap, laminate floor. “Which monster would you be?” She asks, taking my hand, “which one says the most about you? Are you a vampire or a werewolf? A Cyclops or a Minotaur?” She’s smiling but sad-eyed; a weeping clown, desperately stretching out across the chasm then cocking a snook; crying then blaming the squirty flower at her heart for the tears on her cheeks. I can’t even answer.

I’m on top, and my eyes are closed, and she’s telling me to open them. She starts asking me where I am, and what the matter is, and I’m thinking that I hope she doesn’t get pregnant again, and wishing that she’d stop trying to fuck her numbness away, and hoping that if I block out her face — purple-shadowed and gaunt — that I’ll be able to feel something, and come, and finally get it over with. But I can hardly tell her that. I kiss her to shut her up, and she stops asking questions. The bed creaks in the silence, and her feet are cold around my back.

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Nicola Belte lives in Birmingham, U.K, and writes fiction. She has a moustache necklace, but does not yet own novelty slippers.
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